


Other Halves

by LadySilver



Series: Something Called Forever [3]
Category: Forever (TV 2014), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Background Henry Morgan/Jo Martinez, Background Mike Hanson/Karen Hanson, Canon Typical Violence, Case Fic, Crossovers by LS, Dating Club, Drunkenness, Flirting, Gen, References and minor appearances by other canon characters, Sequel, WIP Big Bang, outside pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26004730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilver/pseuds/LadySilver
Summary: Detective Mike Hanson is a pretty observant guy, and when he goes undercover in a dating club to solve a string of poisonings, he sees a lot more than he's equipped to understand.This story is set concurrent with "Something Called Justice" and will make a lot more sense if you've read that one recently.
Series: Something Called Forever [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/377347
Comments: 33
Kudos: 41
Collections: WIP Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! Story #3 in the _Something Called Forever_ series. It's only taken 5 years to figure out whodunnit.
> 
> This story is set after "Something Called Living" and concurrent with "Something Called Justice." It was also originally started after the one and concurrent with the other, which is a fun bit of BTS trivia, if you're into that sort of thing.
> 
> Please note that, while the story is marked gen, if you're of the opinion that gen means no relationships at all, then you should consider this f/m. The story is set in a dating club. There are lots of relationships going on in the background, some of which are directly referenced. If that bothers you, please back click and find a different gen story to read. I won't be upset.
> 
> Thanks to idelthoughts for the poking, prodding, and (frequent) inquiries as to what exactly I'm thinking. This story would still be languishing in the WiP pile, if not for her. And thanks to afteriwake for the lovely artwork!
> 
> Questions, comments, squee, concrit, etc. are all--and always--welcome. You can also find me on [tumblr](https://argentum-ls.tumblr.com) and [DW](https://argentum-ls.dreamwidth.org/).

Mike Hanson became a cop because he didn't like mysteries. He wasn't keen on surprises, either. But mysteries were just messy. Faced with a mystery, he wanted to root out all the details, put them in an order that told a clear story, and rest satisfied that one more piece of the universe was no longer up for debate.

His dislike of mysteries is what had brought him to Clancy's Bar for the regular Thursday night meeting of the Second Time Around Club. The group was comprised of widows and widowers, divorcees, and anyone else over the age of 35 who had ended a long-term relationship and who was searching for a new partner. It was the kind of club he was going to expressly warn his wife away from joining should he kick the bucket before old age had a chance to set in. He couldn’t stand the thought of her ever being this desperate.

Someone had killed the club's president—a role its members ridiculously termed the Dolly—after a club gathering at his house. Russell Jackson had been found dead the next morning, and not from embarrassment. He'd been poisoned by a tainted K-cup, which made everyone who had access to his Keurig a suspect.

Hanson had seen a lot of homicides in his career, with weapons ranging from the typical guns and knives to cars, screwdrivers, and—surprisingly, just once—a bludgeoning with a Keurig machine. That someone would use the K-cup itself was only a matter of time.

And then it happened again. The vic this time was Shondra Patil, one of the original members of the club who, according to everyone, hadn’t missed a meeting since.

Which is how Hanson had ended up seated in the club’s section, doing his best to look like he was trying to drown his loneliness in his $2 Long Island Ice Tea while actually studying the other members. A dozen guys and four gals had taken up posts at the tables. Six people had wandered in since he’d arrived and four other ones had left. Even numbers and not a pair among them. So much for matchmaking.

Clancy’s was the kind of bar that people who used K-cups would consider a dive. The walls were covered in pictures of famous people who supposedly had frequented the place, while sports memorabilia for the locals teams and miscellaneous antiques lined a shelf that circled the room near the ceiling. The lights were dim, the food greasy, and the wooden floors gripped the soles of his shoes.

A handful of scattered tables held other customers, though far fewer than even Hanson expected mid-week. A couple more sat at the bar. His gaze started to slide away before a familiar swatch of color dragged it back. Hanson started, and the chair he’d been leaning back in tipped forward, its front legs hitting the floor with a thud.

There, seated at the bar, was Henry—a man whose idea of a good beer involved a microbrewery no one had ever hard of, and who Hanson knew for a fact would snub his nose at K-cup coffee. His coat and scarf were hung over the back of his chair and his pocket watch rested on the bar top as if he were waiting for someone who was now late. There were only two conclusions Hanson could come to: 1. Henry was on a date, and 2. Henry was slumming. Both of them made Hanson’s hackles rise.

But Hanson was here for work, not to spy on Henry. He slunk lower in his seat and hoped that Henry hadn’t noticed the falling chair in his peripheral vision and wouldn't turn around and spot him. The last thing he needed was for Henry to come over and loudly ask about Karen. OK, the last thing Hanson needed was to get poisoned and to become the next victim in his own case, but Henry asking about his wife in front of a table full of lonely hearts would also end the stakeout.

“Want a refill?” the waitress interrupted, shouting over the classic rock that filled the bar and made it easier for everyone to not talk to each other. She was a kid named Zoe, college aged, with a flop of black hair across her eyes and a series of rings piercing her lip. She was full time here. She'd also taken the previous week off to go out of town for spring break. She hadn't had the lip rings before she left. Must have been some spring break.

Hanson nodded, not trusting that his voice wouldn't carry straight to Henry's ears. It was the kind of thing Henry would be able to pick out of a crowd.

“Anything else?”

A shake of the head.

Zoe rolled her eyes and moved on to the next person.

When Hanson looked back at the bar, Henry had been joined by another college-aged punk. This one had short reddish-blond hair, pale Irish skin, and a leather motorcycle jacket that he didn't remove. He slipped into the seat next to Henry and said something to the bartender. A minute later, a draft beer was pushed in front of him, and Hanson almost sacrificed his cover to go card him. No way was the kid old enough to be drinking, and Clancy's was supposed to have a better reputation than that, despite its appearance. Henry gave no notice of the slight, so Hanson stayed seated. The two knew each other: that much was obvious by how the kid clapped Henry on the shoulder in greeting and how Henry grinned in response. If Henry thought the kid was legal, then Hanson would trust him. Young faces were getting harder and harder to pin to an age as he got older, and Hanson wasn’t going to blow his cover over a guy sneaking a drink a year or two early.

The chair next to him abruptly scooted closer and Hanson felt a foot curl around the back of his calf at the same time as a basket of mozzarella sticks appeared in front of him. “Hey, sweetie,” Miranda cooed. Miranda, he'd learned, was forty-six, twice divorced, and especially interested in any man who ignored her initial advance. She was also a bottle blonde this week. Her short hair stood in washed out contrast against sallow skin. “You look like you could use something to soak up all the liquor,” she said. Picking up a mozzarella stick, she stuck one end in her mouth and leaned toward Hanson so that he could take the other end. Miranda had joined the club two months earlier, a year to the day after the finalization of her second divorce, she’d informed him.

Hanson hadn't thought sharing food like that was cute when it was dogs and a plate of spaghetti, and his stomach churned in disgust at the overture now. Willfully ignoring the offer, he grabbed a stick of his own, knocked the imaginary ash off his imaginary cigar, and stuck it in his mouth. “Very thoughtful of you,” he said. “Very thoughtful.” Searching for something else to say, he settled on a non-committal: “Looks like a good crowd here, tonight.”

Miranda glanced around the table while she finished chewing, then brought her gaze back to bear on him. He was the only one she was interested in seeing tonight. “Yeah, I guess. Listen, I'm going to be leaving in a little while.” Her hand found a resting place on his thigh. “You need a ride home?” She nodded at his drink just as Zoe switched the empty glass out for a freshly made, and undoubtedly less potent, drink. “I don't think you should be driving.”

He was fine. That iced tea had been his first and he'd been working on it for—he checked his watch—almost an hour. She didn't need to know that, though. “Thanks, but I already have a ride.”

Her face fell, though her hand crept a little higher up his thigh.

Hanson pointedly removed it.

“It doesn't have to go anywhere,” she protested. “Sometimes an offer of a ride home is only an offer of a ride home. It's important for us singletons to look out for each other.”

“And we're all old enough to know the importance of drinking responsibly,” Hanson finished for her. He'd heard her use the exact same script on someone else the previous week. That person wasn’t here this week. He might never return. Internally, Hanson sighed. The club had a fluid membership and nothing resembling a membership roster, which meant that finding out who was in it and how to get in contact with them had been a legwork nightmare.

One of the guys seated at the end of the table—Jack, or Jake—snapped his fingers in a summons over his head. “Hey!” he shouted, the word falling into a pocket of silence in the music, “this isn’t what I ordered. Hey! Waitress!” Jack shoved his newly-refreshed drink toward the center of the table, into a collection of empty glasses and half stood up, as if to go forcibly collect Zoe. Jake was a big guy with large hands and a mean set to his eyes. A red flush burned his cheeks. Hanson shifted and slid his chair back, in case he had to get involved.

“You wanna relax?” one of the other guys suggested, first. Hanson couldn’t remember his name at all. Short brown beard, baseball cap, ears that stuck out. “Mistakes happen. You don’t gotta be an ass about it.”

With one eye on the standoff, Hanson searched the dining room for Zoe. He spotted a couple other wait staff and noted that they both had angled themselves toward his table. Zoe, however, he couldn’t find. He figured she’d gone back to the kitchen to pick up more drinks and probably had no idea of the problem brewing out front. Good. The people in the club couldn’t tip her enough for where this night was going.

Movement at the bar caught his attention. Henry had suddenly bowed over, clutching his stomach. He looked up at the kid, who leaned over to ask him a question. Even from here, Hanson could see the panic in his colleague's eyes.

In a rush, Henry fell off his stool and stumbled across the restaurant toward the hallway that housed the men's room. He lurched like a man with most of a dozen drinks, not most of one drink, in his system. Hanson had suspected that Henry’s refusals to come out for a beer with the guys meant he was a lightweight, and the way Henry stumbled into the bathroom door like a man on a mission to hurl gave evidence to that. Hanson saw the bathroom door swing shut, then tracked back to see the kid narrow his eyes suspiciously at Henry’s drink. The kid hefted the glass, gave the contents a deep sniff, then shrugged broadly—adding one more clue to Hanson’s conclusion—before turning to flag down the bartender.

“Hey! Waitress!” Jack shouted again. “I ain’t paying for this! Get your ass out here and fix it!”

Miranda shook her head in condemnation. “And this is why he’s been divorced _three_ times.” She spoke loudly enough for everyone at the table to hear, though no one was paying attention. Softer, she added, “How about we get out of here?”

Henry hadn't emerged from the restroom. He must have been gone long enough for his friend to be worried because the kid tipped back the rest of his beer and headed to the men's room himself. He could have been intending to use the facilities, only he walked into the room and walked right back out. No one could pee that fast.

Returning to his seat, the kid slapped some money on the bar, grabbed Henry's coat, scarf, and watch, and left without waiting for any change.

The back of Hanson's neck crawled as every one of his cop instincts told him that something was very wrong here. The bathroom hallway was a dead end; the first thing Hanson had done was verify that there were no exits that way. The kitchen, and the emergency exit, were both on the other side of the bar, opposite the main entrance. That meant that Henry was either still in the restroom or he'd somehow developed the ability to slip out of the building through the tiny—completely inadequate—air vent. Henry struck Hanson as the kind of man with lots of questionable skills up his sleeve, yet the ability to shrink or turn into mist were both clearly impossible.

And he never would’ve left without his watch.

Which meant that Henry’s “friend” had just seized an opportunity to rob him blind.

Undercover or no, Hanson couldn’t let that stand. Especially not when Henry was the one handling the autopsy side of Hanson’s case.

Jake was still shouting for the waitress, and Ears had switched to threatening him if Jake didn’t sit down and behave like the grown-ass man he was. Most of the bar’s patrons were so focused on them that they didn’t see the young black woman in tight jeans and a yellow halter top who'd been seated alone at a table for two also throw some money down and head for the door. Her drink had barely been touched. A waiter hurried over to stop her with a hamburger and French fries basket in his hand that he had been about to deliver to her table. She motioned to the money, then grabbed the paper that lined the basket and scooped the burger and most of the fries up to take with her in a hastily conceived to-go container.

Finally, a person who was showing some sense: take the food and get out. Little was worse for the digestion than dinner with a side of fighting.

“I gotta go,” Hanson stated. “Got some work I gotta take care of.” He extricated himself from under Miranda’s hand, then pulled out some cash and dropped it on the table. He wasn't going to be waiting for his change either. For all he cared, Miranda could think he was covering half the cheese sticks. She'd probably take it as a sign of his interest in her, but she seemed to take everything a person said as a sign of interest.

“Oh?” Miranda cooed. “What do you do?” I’ll bet it’s something _important_.” She cocked her head and did something with her eyes that was probably supposed to be flirtatious if it didn’t look so much like she was trying to stare at an eclipse. “Investment banker? Oh, I know! I bet you own your own company. Something in...computers?”

Hanson gave her the same look he'd given his youngest son when he caught the boy standing on top of the refrigerator, buck naked, trying to pee into the sink. Some things were too stupid to warrant any other response. “Garbage man,” he answered. He pulled his own jacket on, not bothering to zip it up, and reached for the keys in his pocket so that he wouldn't waste precious seconds fumbling for them when he got to his car.

He made it outside just in time to see a motorcycle pull out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires. From the bundle on the back flapped a piece of blue cloth that looked just like Henry's scarf. A minute later, a second motorcycle pulled out, turned the same direction as the first, and slipped into a trailing position. Hanson knew he couldn't get to his car in time to follow them, so he did the next best thing and pulled out his notepad to record the second bike's license plate numbers.

This was getting more complicated by the second.

He’d thought she was just a patron. Now he had to wonder. What was her role here? Accomplice? Plant? Reporter?

Hanson tapped his pen against his notebook, thinking. He did know one thing: While it might be for the wrong case, she was a lead.

That was when a stream of invectives and a loud crash from inside the restaurant pierced the air. Hanson hurried back inside. Two tables lay overturned, spilled drinks and shattered glassware littered the floor, and Jack and Ears were slugging each other at the center of a full barroom brawl.


	2. Chapter 2

Someone called the cops.

One of them recognized Hanson, then stopped recognizing him when she realized he was under cover. Hanson gave his statement, sat in an ambulance to have himself checked out—the only thing that had pummeled him was the cheap tequila in the drink—and finally made it home sometime after midnight. Karen was already asleep. He stopped into the boys' room to give them a kiss goodnight, then curled up next to his wife and made himself forget about the feel of a strange woman's hand on his leg. In the morning, he stumbled in to work bleary eyed and preemptively disgusted at the amount of paperwork in his future.

Jo, on the other hand, glowed with happiness. He hadn't seen his partner walk with such a bounce in her step since—He couldn't remember when, honestly. This thing between her and Henry was good. He just hoped it was going to stay that way. He didn’t know who the kid was that Henry had met the previous night, but nothing about their body language had suggested a date, so at least Hanson didn’t have to grapple with having witnessed Henry cheating on Jo. 

“Hey,” she greeted with a smile that showed whiter teeth than he thought she'd had the day before. Her makeup looked more carefully applied, too. Hanson was no expert on makeup, but he'd listened to Karen complain enough about the challenges of getting a smooth lipstick line to appreciate when he saw one. “I hear things got interesting for you last night. You OK?”

She would have heard. Cops gossiped worse than Italian grandmothers, especially when one of their own was involved. Thing was, the details Jo knew were also as accurate as those grandmothers’ perceptions of their grandkids. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he said, waving off her concern. “Just one guy tryin’ to teach another some manners. I wasn’t even in the building when the fists started flying.” Hanson’s attention turned inward as he considered the previous night’s events. Jake and Ears—he really needed to learn the guys’ names—were already on the suspects’ list. Jake’s temper bumped him up several notches of interest. 

Jo musta misjudged Hanson’s withdrawal because she wrapped an arm around his shoulders in a casual hug. “Let me know if you need anything.” A glance at the top of his desk made her amend her offer. “Except someone to handle the paperwork. I have plenty of my own to suffer through.”

“You're about to have more,” Lt. Reece interrupted. “We just got a call from a construction company who found a body at their site this morning.”

This was why Hanson wasn't keen on surprises: They almost always turned out to be grisly murders. In all his years as a cop and a detective, he sometimes let himself forget that he hadn't seen everything. Then he learned the hard way that he'd made that mistake because that's when the universe would throw a new kind of grisly at him, such as a person who'd had his head chopped off and then made the focal point of some kind of modernist street art.

As crime scenes went, the homicide was far from the worst Hanson had ever seen. He might even call it _neat_ , if not for the dripping paint and shattered glass that covered everything. With no evidence of a bomb involved, that meant the perp had taken the time after the murder to first clean up and then to redecorate. What kind of warped mind was capable of that?

He was stumbling when he got back to the precinct and was able to turn his attention to the stack of folders that had sprouted on the surface of his desk like a virulent fungus. All the witness statements from the bar. _All_ of them. With a sigh, he grabbed the top one and began reading through it, searching for the lie, the misstep, the detail that would unravel the whole case.

One person—not Ears—flat out accused Jake of the murders. Five others were all certain they knew who’d done it, yet couldn’t pinpoint a name. “Haven’t seen him around for awhile, ya know?” someone had said. “He wasn’t the kind of guy who leaves an impression,” another supplied.

Three cups of awful departmental coffee, two stale Snicker's bars, and a nasty paper cut across his thumb later, his eyes were crossing and he had to take a break, so he ran the motorcycle's license plates. An address popped up. He knew where it was: a part of town that had been on the downhill slide for forty years, had made an effort to crawl back up through the early part of the aughts, then had its feet kicked right back out from under it when the housing bubble popped.

He went into Reece's office to tell her he wanted to check it out. 

Reece leaned back in her chair and cast an appraising eye over him. Light from her computer monitor glinted off the rings on her steepled fingers. “Why do I get the impression that this has nothing to do with any of your open cases?”

Hanson grimaced. “The plates belong to someone who was at the bar last night,” he countered. It wasn’t a lie, nor was it a confirmation. Yet they both knew what he was asking: Permission to pursue a personal interest on work time after having used department resources to get the information. Reece could write him up over this. She wouldn’t, but she could. Hanson was stepping over lines here that only his close rate allowed him to cross without risking his job.

She tapped her fingertips together, off-beat with the tick of the clock over her door. “You put in the extra hours last night,” she said, considering. “Why don’t you take a long lunch today? Treat yourself to something healthier than what our vending machine sells.”

He blinked at her, thought briefly about arguing, then went to collect his coat. There were plenty of food trucks to choose from along the way.

The address belonged to exactly the kind of crumbling brownstone he expected to find, with the motorcycle in question parked on the street in front. The door to her building was locked and a few minutes of standing outside, trying not to look like a creeper who was intent on gaining illegal entry to an apartment failed to yield anyone willing to open the door for him. He was heading back down the steps when he caught a glimpse of movement in the third story window across the street. Reddish-blond hair, pasty Irish skin, a face that still did not look old enough to drink. The kid paused in front of the window, his gaze sweeping the street. Hanson dropped and pretended to tie his shoelace. When he looked up again, the shade had been pulled. It was a good quality blackout shade that afforded complete privacy for the person on the other side—which meant Hanson had to know what was going on.

He knew better than to go tearing across the street. Normally, cops did this kind of surveillance in pairs to keep each other safe. Since he didn’t have his partner—and wasn’t going to call her—he shoved his hands in his pockets and took a stroll down the street. He needed to make himself look as non-threatening as possible. When he got to the end of the block, he crossed and began strolling back the other direction. This side of the street had shops on it, so he ducked into a bodega and bought himself a pack of gum. Anything to cut the power of the onions from the gyro he’d grabbed. A little farther down, he stopped to examine the pictures plastered across the window of a hair salon. 

The building he wanted turned out to be a martial arts studio, which was handy because it meant the door from the street into the lobby was unlocked. He let himself in, then stopped to study the names on the mailboxes while he waited for someone to enter or leave the residences. It was a wait of only minutes until a woman juggling a crying toddler on one side and a baby carrier on the other came through. Hanson held the door for her and got an exasperated smile in response. He remembered those years way too well. Best thing about the boys getting older was when they both developed the power to walk on their own and the listening ability to go more-or-less where directed.

Five flights of stairs—no working elevator—brought him to the apartment he wanted, and once he had a number, he had a name, courtesy of the mailboxes. Richard Jensen. No other names posted. Probably lived alone, yet busily engaged in an argument with someone. One person had an American accent with hints of upstate New York in it; the other had a deeper voice and an accent that sounded a lot like Henry's. That was interesting. Since he had no warrant or probable cause to be here, Hanson chose to stand against the wall and eavesdrop. Perks of the job.

“...can handle it myself,” Hanson heard the American yell, just as he settled into place against the faded brown wall.

“What you need to handle is getting yourself out of town,” answered the Brit. He wasn't yelling. “This guy is _good_. He’s made quite a name for himself recently.”

The hallway was dingy, cracked plaster, peeling paint. A general scent of mold and non-repaired water damage filled the air. Hanson's nose itched. He spotted three other apartment doors and an exit to a fire escape at the end of the hall. The exit door looked like it might have been painted shut. This wasn’t the kind of place he could imagine anyone living unless they had no other options.

“Yeah, that explains why you came _to_ town. Shouldn't you be leading the way in not being here?”

“He's not after me.”

Suddenly suspicious, the American demanded to know, “Why not?”

Footsteps echoed across the wooden floor. That Hanson could hear them showed how thin the walls were. “He's only interested in kids.”

Hanson’s teeth came down hard into the wad of gum in his mouth. What the hell had he stumbled into here? Some kind of pedophile ring? Sex trafficking?

“I’m not a kid!” the American protested.

But that wasn’t the protest of someone trying to run a ring; it sounded more like someone trying to escape from one. One thing was for sure: Richard Jensen was in trouble. Did Henry know about this? Was Henry _involved_ in this? 

Did Jo know?

“No, but you look like one, and that's what he's after.” There was a crash and the wall shook as if someone had been slammed into it. Hanson flinched in sympathy. Flakes of ceiling plaster rained down on him. “Get out of town.”

“Why do you care if I keep my head?” Richie demanded.

In one sentence, Hanson’s preliminary picture unraveled. Only hours removed from seeing the corpse of a person who had been beheaded, Hanson heard the question as if it had been selected just to shock him. The remains of the gyro churned in his stomach. He focused his cop willpower on keeping the food where it belonged, and told himself that what he'd heard was just an ill-timed figure of speech. There was no way the kid had meant it that way.

“It's my responsibility to care,” the Brit answered. He had to be standing right inside the door now because his matter-of-fact tone wouldn't have carried through even these thin walls otherwise.

Silence, then a response that carried an edge of menace. “I already have a teacher.”

“ _Had._ I seem to recall you leaving his tutelage. That was last century, wasn't it? Look, unlike the rest of the way our lives work, when it comes to teachers, there must be more than one.”

“And you've decided to step up. Since when?”

“Since about 90 minutes before I got on the plane yesterday. And right now what I want is a hot shower and a place to lay low for a few months—and for you to get out of town. This benefits both of us.”

“You decided to become my teacher because I have a second bedroom? Now that...” The rest of what he was going to say was swallowed as Richie walked deeper into the apartment.

Hanson's waffling about whether to stay and keep listening in case the guys came back within range was decided for him when his phone buzzed. He started down the stairs before answering it, not wanting to risk his voice carrying back into the apartment.

“I hope you've enjoyed your lunch,” Lt. Reece said.

Already? Hanson glanced at his watch. He had been gone long enough to meet the terms of Reece’s loophole, though not by much. The only reason she would call him back in so soon was…

“We have a second body,” she continued. “A floater. Someone tried to dispose of this one, which means our guy is either getting smarter or sloppier, depending on what order these people were killed in.” It occurred to Hanson to question why Reece thought the two deaths were connected, then he decided not to. Not right now. He’d find out soon enough, anyway. “Detective Martinez is already on her way to the scene. How quickly can you join her?” 

She told him where. Hanson calculated how fast he could get there if the traffic cooperated. Then he calculated how fast he could get there if he walked. He decided to split the difference and err on the side of sirens being successful in getting the other drivers to move out of the way. He gave her a number, then thumbed off the connection and proceeded to his car.


	3. Chapter 3

Hours of pouring over the statements from the members of the Second Time Around club made one fact abundantly clear: No one agreed on what the club was supposed to be. Oh, each member had a firm idea of the club’s mission and practices. Put together, though, and the only cohesive picture Hanson got was that old image of three children standing on each other with a trench coat on, pretending to be one big person. Or, one big club, as it happened — with at least five children involved in the charade — and, possibly, a less conspicuous article of clothing than a trench coat.

The club appeared to be an administrative and organizational disaster, with no agreement about who was in charge, what the meetings were supposed to accomplish, or who the membership counted. As far as anyone knew, it had always been like that.

Flipping his thumb back over the stack of folders, Hanson thought about the variety of stories contained within. The only conclusion he could reach was that he’d stumbled into a deliberate cover up, which meant that the _police_ interviews weren’t going to find any useful information.

This was why he’d been sent undercover, of course. People, as a rule, didn’t like to talk to the police. And people, as a rule, could be counted on to edit what they told the police in whatever way made them look most innocent of wrongdoing, real or imagined. Yet his instincts told him that what was going on here needed special attention. He gnawed his lower lip for a minute, internally debating his next step.

Then he picked up the phone and made a date.

The next night, he put the boys to bed, then told Karen where he was going and what time he expected to return home. With the hard-earned wisdom of a woman who’d been a detective’s wife for a significant portion of her adult years, she met his announcement with only: “At least change your clothes before you go. That golf shirt my parents gave you for Christmas is on the top shelf of the closet, and for God’s sake, put on a pair of jeans. Bottom drawer of your dresser. The way you’re dressed now, you look like you were sent from Central Casting to play the role of Detective #1. You want me to make you a cup of coffee?; it’s getting late.”

Moments like these, he remembered all over again why he loved her.

Clancy’s was a lot quieter without the club in attendance. He saw only a half dozen people scattered around the booths and tables, and was surprised to see that many. The same music from the previous night played over the speakers. As always, it was too loud. Who needed their music that loud? He'd like to keep what was left of his hearing, thank you. No one else was at the bar, so he grabbed one of the seats and ordered a beer while he waited for Miranda to arrive. 

A couple beers later and Hanson's thoughts were still far from being organized enough for the kind of police work needed if he was going to get the answers he sought without blowing his cover. There were too many balls in the air. In the space of a handful of breaths, he caught himself mulling over what he’d learned about the Second Time group, trying to work out who was threatening them and whether the deaths were accidents, escalations, targeted, or circumstantial. Throw in the other case with people getting stabbed and beheaded, and he was starting to feel that someone out there in the universe was laughing at him. Henry's reactions to the case didn't help; it was like he knew more than he was letting on. Hanson recognized that Henry had remarkable observational skills. He also knew everything about everything and loved to share that knowledge. For Henry to have been at the recent crime scenes, and not pointing out minute details like any idiot should be aware of them, was decidedly suspicious.

And then there was the conversation he’d overheard at Jensen’s place. _Had_ he heard anything suspicious, or was he just primed to think he had because of everything else going on.

A waft of cold air brushed Hanson's cheek as the front door opened. He debated changing seats so that he wouldn't be subjected to that all night, then decided that moving was too much effort. He looked at the new arrival, half-convinced that it would be Henry—think about someone hard enough and he was bound to show up, right?

Instead he got more proof that the universe was an unfair and fickle place. The person who walked through the door was someone he never thought he'd see again—had hoped to never see again: The man who had wasted his afternoon by refusing to be interrogated about his involvement in a liquor store robbery. He was once again wearing that damned long coat, and Hanson just _knew_ that a sword was concealed inside its folds. Was it worth arresting him again? Not tonight, he decided. He was on a different case tonight. Hanson dragged his attention back to his beer and hunched his shoulders up, seeking to hide in the semi-darkness of the bar.

The effort failed. The pop rock tune playing over the bar's speakers covered any sounds of approach, but nothing could disguise the heat of an uninvited person drawing up close.

“Detective.” The man's voice was smooth and deep, carrying the accent that had reminded him of Henry. 

With a a start, Hanson recognized it as the second speaker in Richard Jensen's apartment. No wonder it had seemed so familiar at the station, despite the different accent that had been used then. 

How did this guy manage to be everywhere? _Why_ was he everywhere? Hanson looked up into a thin, sharp featured face that appeared somehow younger than he remembered. “Mike,” he corrected. As much as he didn't want to invite familiarity, he couldn't have this man bandying about his title like that. “It's Adamson, right?”

“Matt.” 

_Like hell it is,_ Hanson thought, though how he knew that he couldn’t say. So he didn’t say anything.

With a sweeping glance, Adamson took in Hanson's untucked shirt, absent tie, and temporarily naked ring finger. What conclusions he came to, he also didn't share. “I can’t say I expected to see you here.”

“I could say the same. Tell me this isn't your bar-of-choice.”

“It's not.” Adamson said; his attention left his appraisal of Hanson long enough to take in the dark-stained wood walls and the pictures and memorabilia that provided the décor. Amusement suddenly twinkled in his eyes. “Though, I am in need of a watering hole in this city and this place is not without its charm.”

“I saw it first,” Hanson said. He wrapped his hands around his latest beer so that he wouldn't wrap them around Adamson's neck; something about this guy really rubbed him the wrong way. “What are you doing here, and how soon until you plan to go away?”

Adamson smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. In his life, Hanson had met a mere handful of people he didn't like on sight, and he'd never had time-spent prove that his initial reaction was unfounded. It was much rarer that he'd been on the receiving end of that sentiment. “That's really not your business, is it?” A second later, Adamson's whole expression smoothed, the antagonism slipping away like responsibility off a politician's shoulders. “If you must know, I'm looking for someone.”

Hanson was on the verge of pointing out that Adamson's friend wasn't here. Only the fact that he'd paused to take a swig of his beer gave his slightly scattered brain the time to remember that he wasn't supposed to know that Adamson knew the kid he'd seen talking to Henry. His eyes narrowed as he recalled Adamson demanding to speak to Henry in the interrogation. Six degrees of Henry Morgan. Henry had a track record for landing himself in bizarre, and frequently dangerous, situations. What had he gotten himself involved in this time? “Anyone in particular?” Hanson managed to ask.

Adamson was saved from answering when a new body plastered herself to Hanson's other side. “Mikey!” Miranda crowed. “I’m so sorry I’m late; I got held up at work. You wouldn’t _believe_ the kind of day I’ve had.” She was drunk. Her hazel eyes were glassy and twin splotches of red marred her cheeks. She was also very loud. Hanson rolled his eyes at Adamson, who wrinkled his back, in silent communication about how unlikely it was that Miranda had just come from any place of employment.

Hanson hadn't been called Mikey since he graduated to grades with numbers, and he wasn't about to backtrack on that now. “Mike,” he corrected. Hearing his first name come out of his mouth for the second time in only a few minutes was odd, and if he'd been alone he would have taken some time to ponder that. Of course, if he'd been alone, he wouldn't have been saying his first name. He shot a warning glance at Adamson, hoping that the man would know not to do anything to give away his title—not that Hanson had any reason to trust him to read the signal, or to respect it.

“So this is what you’ve been keeping from us, _Miiiike_ ” Miranda said with a final chuckle after his name as if she found it funny. The scent of bourbon wafted off her breath. She draped one arm across Hanson's shoulder while she held out the other hand for Adamson to shake. “I'm Miranda Gerring.”

Adamson appraised her, took in Hanson's futile effort to stay as far away from her arm as possible, then grabbed her hand and shook it like a snowglobe. “Charles Oldman. It's great to meet you. Really great. Any friend of Mikey's, you know.” In between the first syllable and the second, his accent shifted. Instead of sounding like Henry, he now sounded like Hanson, native born New Yorker, full of hard r's and broad vowels. 

Hanson could only blink at the smoothness of the switch: accent, demeanor, name. If he hadn't thought the man was dangerous before, he did now. Only experienced actors, or con artists, could make transitions like that. Just his luck such a person would have chosen to torture Hanson at a time like this.

“Are you married, Charlie?” Miranda examined Adamson's hand for a ring. On not finding one, her eyes lit up. “Seeing anyone? Long-term relationship?”

Adamson seemed to give the question due consideration before answering slowly, “Not last I checked.”

Miranda swatted Hanson's arm. “Why haven't you brought him along to the meeting? You shouldn't be letting someone this gorgeous fly under the radar.”

“Meeting?” Adamson's eyebrows went up. The vocabulary of looks he had to share with Hanson also had foul language. “I don't think I'm interested in any meet--”

“It's a singles' group,” Hanson interrupted, before Adamson got the idea that Hanson was trying to save his immortal soul, or anything. “The Second Time Around Club.” He lifted Miranda's arm off his shoulder and let it drop. “Like the man said, he's not interested.” Being flanked by two people who had no business standing so close to him was making his hackles rise. They both needed to take a giant step back. In fact, Adamson could take ten or fifteen giant steps back and out the door and it still wouldn't be enough. Miranda, well she was a different story. Hanson couldn't risk alienating her until he'd finished the case. 

“Well, _I'm_ interested,” Miranda protested. She picked up a drink the bartender had deposited in front of her and swallowed it back. More bourbon, if Hanson’s nose was able to separate out its smell from the fumes that surrounded Miranda. “The only thing is that--” She peered closer at Adamson. “You've gotta, gotta be older than thirty-five. The whole reason the club exists is so that we--” She giggled. “--more experienced people could have a fighting chance on the dating scene. Are you old enough?” Hanson could hear the begging in her tone, and he immediately started to calculate the likelihood that she'd transfer her affections to Adamson. “Hey, can I get a refill over here?”

Adamson gave her a broad wink. “No worries. I've got a young face. It's a curse. This meeting: When is it?” He sounded like he was actually interested. Damn.

“Tuesday nights,” Hanson answered.

“Yes, you really should come join us next week. Consider it a _personal_ invitation. I’ve been going off and on since the beginning … years … four … no, five years. Met my last husband there, and I just know that’s where I’ll meet my next one too.” She smiled at Adamson so hard that she lost her balance, and Hanson had to throw an arm around her waist to keep her from tumbling into his lap. 

“Tuesday,” Adamson repeated, as if Miranda hadn’t just propositioned him in front of her date. “So, this isn't the regular crowd?” He once more glanced around at the seated customers. “Either of you happen to know if a waitress named Zoe is working tonight?”

“It's the regular crowd for a Wednesday,” Miranda crooned, giggling again as she added, “plus you two. Yoooouuu twoooo.” With concerted effort she extracted herself from Hanson’s arm, only to plaster herself right back against his side. If the bartender didn’t cut her off soon, Hanson was going to. He nudged the latest drink far enough out of her reach that she would hopefully decide the effort to get it was too much. “Zoe’s the one with the … the eyebrow … no, the lip piercings, right?” She frowned in thought. “I think it’s her … whatcha call it … night off.”

Adamson straightened up suddenly, slapping a hand on the bar with an air of finality. “I have to go; I just remembered another obligation I need to attend to. Miranda, thank you for the invitation. Mikey, I'll see you on Tuesday.” With a nod at both of them, he turned and left the bar.

Hanson watched him go, pondering what interest the man had in a young woman he obviously had never met before and couldn’t identify by sight. Had Zoe and Jensen interacted the other night? Hanson didn’t think so. So, what was the connection that had Adamson interested in both of them? 

He removed Miranda’s hand from his thigh and turned to direct her onto a barstool before she finished falling over. So much for interviewing her tonight. He sighed. “You met your last husband through the club?” he asked, anyway. Miranda had told him she’d only been in the club a few months, and now she had revealed a different story. What else had she neglected to answer completely?

Miranda thrust out a hand with three fingers extended. “ _And_ three boyfriends, too. Wanna make it four and five?”

“How about we get you a glass of water?” Hanson said, instead. He tipped his chin at the bartender so that she knew he was talking to her, then helped Miranda guide the much larger glass to her mouth when it arrived. She sputtered at the taste, yet still managed to swallow a good amount. 

“I started the club, you know.” She took a smaller sip, then spit most of it back into the glass. “Well, me and those two traitors. Hooked up with each other and left me holding the bag.”

Hanson’s disgust at what she’d done with the water vanished with this piece of information. None of the reports had mentioned it. How, he wondered, had nobody mentioned it? One of the questions asked of everyone was who the founders were, since they were likely targets for the murderer. Yet one more thing Miranda had failed to mention.

“Who knows that you’re one of the founders?” he asked, trying to keep the question casual sounding. 

She shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care.” Propping her arms on the edge of the bar, she dropped her head onto the improvised pillow, then mumbled into the center: “’Think I should go to bed.”

Hanson had to agree. She was on the verge of passing out, and sinking further by the second. “Let me get you a cab,” he suggested.

Blearily, she blinked at him, then smiled in a way that was probably supposed to be coy. “Maybe next time, Sweetie.”

“Sure,” he agreed, though it was already too late for her to hear the promise he had no intention of keeping. Again, he flagged the bartender down, while pulling his credit card out of his wallet to pay for the ride. While the date hadn’t gone at all like he’d expected, no matter how much the cab cost, he’d still come out ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place at the same time as "Something Called Justice" chapter 5, and continues the scene depicted therein.

Miranda’s apartment was decorated in a style Hanson generously decided to call “I know how to crochet.” That brought him up short.

A blanket lay draped over the backs and seats of each of the two armchairs _and_ the couch that crowded the front room. The coffee table had a crocheted table runner, as did the side tables, the kitchen table, the shelves mounted under the windows, and—Hanson quickly discovered—the bedroom dresser. None of them matched. But all were, to his cursory glance, well-crafted and made by someone with skill. And drenched in Febreeze. The kind with Fresh Linen scent that pretended to remove smells by shouting them down.

Once again, Miranda had neglected to disclose important personal information. Nowhere in her profile did she mention the hobby, nor did she carry around yarn and hooks like so many hobbyists did. He thought he’d developed a good impression of who she was, and now there was this.

To his surprise, he wasn’t surprised. Inasmuch as he’d given Miranda’s character any deep thought, what he saw here was _her_ : Desperate for comfort, with too much time on her hands, and the patience to keep trying until she succeeded.

“Come on,” he stated, pulling her through the front door, and trying not to cough at the smell. Though Miranda was still capable of walking under her own power, she had lost the ability to stay upright without support—and that meant Hanson had felt compelled to escort her on the cab ride and then up to the 10th floor apartment where she lived.

At least this one had an elevator.

Miranda giggled, then released a long, easy sigh. “Such a night,” she murmured. “D’you ever … ever …” She thrust out a finger, as if to emphasize a point, only to get distracted at its movement and trail off on a third “ever.”

“Kitchen’s that way.” It didn’t take much for Hanson to map out the apartment. Only a handful of doors led off the main room, and only one of those was shut. He aimed for it, doing his best to guide Miranda through the obstacle course of chairs, davenports, and end tables. “Which means you need to go this way.” To himself, he wondered if all the seating was a relic from when she first started the club, or if it was just so she’d have a way to display her handicrafts. What came first: the chairs or the afghans?

“I need a drink,” she stated. Her articulation was the best he’d heard all night.

“No, you don’t.”

“Do,” she argued, throwing her weight toward the kitchen door.

Hanson was bigger and, despite being years away from the fitness records he’d set in the Academy, stronger. He was also sober. Countering her path change, he got her into the bedroom and let Miranda drop onto the bed.

“Think you know someone?” Miranda breathed out, her words barely a whisper. She flopped back on the bed, arms splayed out across the pink and green crocheted blanket covering it. She’d be fine there, Hanson decided. He didn’t need to tuck her in, not with as heavy and scratchy as the blanket looked.

With her down, he was free to consider her question. “Did you ever think you know someone?” Hanson pieced together. She hadn’t seemed like she was accusing him of being the person or persons she’d misjudged, so that made it safe to answer.

He contemplated the snippets of recent conversations he’d heard and the glimpses of personal interactions he’d witnessed: Henry’s mysterious exit at the bar; Jensen and Adamson’s creepy conversation, and then Adamson ... hell, just Adamson; Jo’s hurt at whatever was going on between her and Henry. So many of the interactions seemed to conceal a darker, dangerous level, like a layer of new snow over a Dumpster in a Manhattan alley. More than usual, in fact. Everyone had things they were lying about, either to themselves or others. It was human nature, and mostly the lies weren’t worth the effort or the additional harm to expose. That he spent so much of his life dealing with the dregs of humanity didn’t mean he had to make the mistake of thinking everything and everyone he saw was part of it. Except when they were. Hanson shrugged, though Miranda wasn’t watching him to see it. “Mostly,” he said, “people are exactly who they say they are. You just gotta pay attention to who they say that is.”

Miranda stared toward the ceiling for long enough that Hanson thought she might have fallen asleep with her eyes open. She certainly hadn’t heard his words of wisdom. Once again, his voice of experience was the victim of poor timing. He took her shoes off and refilled a glass of water that had been sitting on the nightstand, reluctant to leave until he knew she wouldn’t try to get another drink. “Thought I knew him,” she said.

Only then did he notice that her head had lolled and her gaze now pointed to the laptop that sat on a small desk opposite the bed. A file cabinet was pressed up next to the desk on one side with a printer on top. A stack of printouts sat in the tray. Legally, he couldn’t boot up the laptop if it was off and click through whatever files he found there. Legally, he couldn’t go through the file cabinet. But nothing prevented him from glancing at the paper on top of the stack, and if he happened to bump the mouse and bring the laptop screen to life….

The computer was off, but the printouts stole his breath. He “accidentally” knocked them off the tray, which meant he was now obligated to pick each one up. They were screen grabs of a conversation being held through some social media platform he didn’t recognize. The account was not Miranda’s. It wasn’t any of the names he’d seen affiliated with the club, yet he recognized the writing as Miranda's. A fake name, then. It could have been for one of the normal reasons. She might have been taking entirely reasonable precautions to protect her identity. She might have been catfishing. He couldn’t tell from this sample, and the shuddering snore from behind him meant he couldn’t ask.

She’d been talking to a guy whose name he did recognize. At least, he recognized the last name. Gerring. The same as Miranda’s. He’d bet anything this was her latest ex-husband. Gerring had been flirting with Miranda’s fake identity, likely unaware of who sat on the other side of the screen.

Or maybe he was.

The final exchange—presumably the one that had prompted her to print the whole conversation out—should have been banal. It should have been as innocent as pickup lines went. It wasn’t.

Hanson rocked back on his heels, the final page of the conversation clenched in his hand. As he listened to Miranda’s continued snoring, he suddenly understood the question she’d tried so hard to ask him before she passed out and why she’d been drinking so heavily. She was so desperate for a relationship, to the point of having started a singles club just so she could meet people, and this is what she got for it.

_Tommorow night? Ur place? Ill bring the coffee._

Below the text, her ex-husband had helpfully embellished his offer with a picture of a K-cup.

*~*~*

Hanson watched Jo cuff the sword-wielding maniac and wrestle him to the floor of the warehouse where they’d caught him. Police work. One day it was solving a murder through getting a drunk woman safely home to a cozy apartment, and the next it was wrestling violent criminals in filthy, abandoned buildings. While he couldn’t avoid the latter, the closer Hanson got to the golden watch, the more he preferred the former.

He hefted the sword the maniac had dropped, surprised at its weight. For a second—a tiny fraction of a second—he considered swinging the sword. Just to see how it felt. There had to be a reason both the maniac and Adamson chose to carry this type of weapon. Adamson. The mystery man.

To his surprise, Adamson had played both the role of informant and bait in the capture. Snitch made sense. Hanson had no doubt that Adamson was more than he let on. Why he’d play bait was a different question—and one that Hanson suspected Henry already had the answer to, based on the quiet words they’d stepped out of the warehouse to exchange. Between the quantity of weapons they’d caught Adamson carrying, his ability to switch accents on the fly, and the fluency of his fighting just now, the picture Hanson was forming of his man seemed less illegal and more extra legal. Despite this, Hanson allowed himself a tight smile.

He’d closed two cases in one week. Quite a boost to the spirits.

He’d needed it, too. Something had gone down between Jo and Henry that had them both wound tight and snapping with tension. He recognized a lovers’ spat when he saw one, though Jo hadn’t volunteered any details. She was professional that way.

Hanson read the maniac his rights, then helped Jo get him back to his feet and out the door. She’d arrived in a department vehicle, so he hauled the perp toward it, ready to toss him in the back seat and call it a night. Two cases closed. Two murderers off the streets. There but for the paperwork went he.

“You’ll want a Russian translator,” Adamson called after them. To Henry, he said more that Hanson couldn’t catch because he was too busy grumbling to himself. If the perp didn’t speak English, and therefore couldn’t understand his rights, they could lose this case on a technicality. And Hanson had no doubt that if this guy landed back on the streets, it would only be a matter of time before he started slicing people up with his sword again. He pulled out his phone to call the station so they could have a translator waiting when they arrived. Given the late hour, they’d need all the lead time they could get.

“As it happens, I speak Russian,” Adamson added.

Hanson sighed. Why hadn’t he expected that?

Adamson stepped past Jo, who had her notebook out and pen poised. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his jeans and he ambled toward the car as if he were spending a lazy afternoon on the beach rather than strolling through the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse in the dark of night. The croaking of frogs from the nearby river filled the air, the only thing undisturbed by his presence.

“Hey! Statement.” Jo waved the notebook and pen.

“Let’s get him taken care of first.” Adamson gestured with his chin at the maniac, who now sat hunched in the back of Jo’s car, his thick-featured face pulled into a murderous glower. “I give you my word that I won’t run off before you’re done with me.” He shot an inscrutable look at Henry. “We had a deal, after all.”

Hanson didn’t know what that deal was, nor did he care. No badges had been flashed, no acronyms dropped. None of that deal was official, which gave Hanson plausible deniability about whether it even existed. All that mattered was getting the maniac properly processed. He nodded his approval, got the sword tagged and stowed in the trunk, then turned his attention to a different matter. Heading back into the warehouse, he called over his shoulder, “Hey, Morgan, you got a minute?”

Henry hesitated only a moment, no doubt correctly deducing that Jo would wait for him at the car since she couldn’t risk leaving Adamson and the guy who’d just tried to kill him together, unsupervised. Hanson couldn’t have crafted a better opportunity if he’d had weeks to plan.

A layer of grit covered the concrete floor of the warehouse, disturbed only where the five people in the building that night had walked or tumbled through it. Hanson hunkered down in front of one of those patches and squinted at it until Henry did the same. Anyone who walked in on them wouldn’t see anything suspicious.

The height and emptiness of the warehouse amplified sounds, so Hanson kept his voice down. "You and Adamson seem pretty tight. You trust him?"

Henry jerked, as if aborting a glance in Adamson’s direction. “I cannot speak to his character, except to say that he’s given me no reason not to extend him the benefit of doubt.” He pressed his lips together in thought, then conceded. “So far, he has kept his promises.”

A “but” seemed to be hanging at the end of the last word, not that Hanson needed one. “What about that other friend of yours. The young one. Jensen?”

“Richie?” Henry asked. With the way he said the nickname, Henry lost all ability to keep the kid at arm’s length, like he had with Adamson. The tone now jibed with their casual, close body language at the bar. _Why_ they were friends, though, still didn’t have an answer.

“Richie? Not Rich or Rick? Dick? OK, not that one. Even I could tell he’s old enough to have an adult name,” Hanson grumbled.

“How did…?” Henry trailed off as he thought back. “Ah ha!” The interjection bounced off the walls, and Hanson made a frantic shushing motion before more overly-loud words followed. Henry cast him an aggrieved look, but complied. “You’ve been working the poisoning case. The two victims were both affiliated with that… what was it again … oh, yes, a singles’ club. What a dreadful thing for people to have to participate in. Members of the larger community used to look out for one another so that no one had to be single, provided they didn’t prefer the melancholy life. Given that the club meets at Clancy’s Bar, you must have been there the other night.” It wasn’t a question. Hanson nodded in confirmation anyway. Frowning in sudden concern, Henry asked, “What else did you see there?”

It didn’t matter, and Hanson didn’t feel like listening to Henry try to come up with a deflection or a lie. Nor was he interested in explaining how he’d learned the kid’s name. “Just answer the question: Do you trust the kid?”

Henry shifted his weight, drawing in on himself. “I don’t believe it matters any longer if I do.” Grit had smudged the gloss of his shoes; he made no effort to dust it off. “I have reason to believe that he has also become a victim of our man outside … though perhaps I’ll yet be proven wrong.”

That was more candor than Hanson had expected, and a surprising amount coming from Henry. The conversation he’d eavesdropped on again flashed through his mind as he considered which of the “men outside” Henry might be referring to, and concluded easily that it wasn’t Adamson. He’d been trying to help the kid, trying to help Zoe. Hell, he’d put his own life in danger to help catch the bad guy. Hanson had a feeling he’d succeeded on all counts. “I think you will,” he offered.

It was all connected: Adamson, the kid, the black woman at the bar, the maniac, Henry. All the pieces now implied a different kind of danger than he’d first suspected. Not sex-trafficking, though Hanson didn’t dare try to put a label on what it could be. Not yet. He slowly stood up, his knees cracking and his back already stiffened. He still had a point to make and not much more time to make it. “See, the thing is, Morgan, you’re kind of a enigma. I’ve asked around and no one seems to know much about you. Oh, they know you’re damned good at your job, and apparently your roommate runs a quality antique store. Karen would go there every weekend, if she had the option.”

The corner of Henry’s mouth stretched toward a proud smile as he preened.

“But Henry Morgan, the man? No one seems to know much about him at all. You know what they say, though: judge a man by the company he keeps. And the company you keep…” Hanson shook his head, unable to find descriptors condemning enough. “I’ve worked enough cases with you to know you’re into some pretty weird shit. And your friends, I got a lot of questions about them. But Jo seems to like you, and Jo’s good people. So, here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to make things right with her, whatever you have to do. Then you’re going to make sure you keep doing right by her. She’s been through enough, so you're gonna make damn sure that none of your weird shit hurts her.”

Henry was a smart guy who was quick on the uptake, so he recognized a shovel talk when he heard one. “What if I'm unable to fulfill those terms?” he asked.

Hanson caught Henry’s eye and held it. “How about we don’t find out.” The thing was, Hanson hadn’t answered Henry’s question about what he’d seen, much less what he’d figured out on his own, and he wasn’t going to. Let Henry wonder. He might be able to suss out that Hanson didn’t know anything specific, but he couldn’t guess when that might change, or what Hanson might do about it.

Just because Hanson didn’t like mysteries didn’t mean he wasn’t good at solving them.


End file.
